Observations
by polotiz
Summary: Post 5x12 - The relationship as observed by others :)
1. The Ledge

**Disclaimer:** while I am extremely miffed at the torture we have all been subjected to by TNT (aka season 5 cliffhanger), I do not intend to steal any of the characters from Rizzoli and Isles, they are not mine, I am just borrowing them.

**A/N: **So... while still puzzling over Puzzle Pieces this little monster wrote itself. I didn't know what to expect from it and it is a slightly different writing style to my normal one but that's the way the muse works. It is designed to be a bit chaotic and read in one big breath so... Fingers crossed :)

Spoilers for episode 5x12

...

I recognise the look in her eyes just after they pull me out - for that one single moment when she doesn't have her attention fixed on the pale limp body they have pulled out after me, barking orders at the hands attached to the men doing the pulling ... where to lay her, how to handle her, put her right here, lay her flat, be careful, we don't know the extent of any injuries... Call an ambulance.. Jane... Jane... Come on Jane, Please be okay...

In that single moment she looks at me and I see it, a quick check to see if I am okay, still breathing, still in one piece and then those green eyes darken, giving way to burning anger and silent accusation.. she went in after you, you're the reason she's here, you're the reason we're pulling her out like this. You're responsible. Your fault.

And she turns away as tears fill them and I wonder if she timed it that way so I couldn't see but I did, and I know.

I hear the gasp as they roll the body over and her eyes are shut and her hair is covering her face and she is so pale... And trembling fingers press against her neck where her pulse should be and the other rests on her chest... No pulse.. No pulse and no breathing and I can't help thinking that this is the woman who only minutes before was on that ledge standing with me, risking herself, telling me to fight, to live, to not give up. But I look at her and the lips that uttered those words are turning blue and a part of me wishes she'd kept those words inside her so they would speak to her now..

And then her head is tilted back and the lighter-haired woman is breathing down into her lungs, her hands come together and they're over her sternum and she's pushing down, over and over again, calling her name, pleading with her to wake up, to open her eyes... Come on Jane, don't give up...

And I can tell by the assuredness in her actions that she's done this before, many times.. but not like this, because she's also offering to drink beer and eat pizza and watch all the die hard and rocky movies available, she's getting season passes to the red socks and promising not to miss a game, she's going to wear tracksuit pants to work for a week, if she just wakes up, breathes... And she does it again for her, showing her how - see how simple it is, just breathe, come on Jane, don't you dare give up on me...

But there is no answer, just like there were no answers for me until Jane was there on that ledge and asked the right questions.. And somewhere inside of me on that ledge something restarted and I knew it was my heart beating and it reminded me that I was alive, that I was living and that it was important - and this woman is saying the same thing to her now as she forces her heart to beat and breathes for her and I can feel the terror in her voice as she demands that ambulance one more time.

And then I can hear the sirens in the background, the piercing screech of hope... Her hope and my hope and the breath everyone is holding as they wait for Jane to breathe, as she presses down again and again, over and over and gives her own air to her lungs waiting, pleading, hoping..

And I hope they make it in time.

I hope for her.

She's desperate now - too long, too long she is saying and then she is begging and the tears fall in earnest now and her forehead drops onto the still chest as a sob escapes her lips.. Come on Jane! You're too stubborn for this... And she looks up and brushes the hair from her face so gently, calling to her.. calling her back to her, and I know the hope is fading.

"Don't give up."

I only barely hear the words leave my lips and I know I have no place saying them in fact I don't even remember thinking them and I wonder if maybe they are hers. She looks up at me sharply with that same look and I know she's blaming me all over again but that is more than okay because I will take it, I will take it all if she will wake up and come back to her.

She has only missed a few heartbeats, only a handful but she's back and she continues. Come on Jane, I'm not joking.. I see her tears falling on her pale face and I wonder if they might just be warm enough to wake her..

And the sirens get louder and I can hear the tyres against the gravel not far away, and I hope it's close enough. She tells her she is not letting her go, She tells her can't do this, she can't watch her die... And I can hear the terror and agony and I understand what it means and I watch her press down harder...

And suddenly there is a gasp and a gurgle and liquid spills from those blue lips and down that pale cheek onto the concrete and her eyes are wide open now and they're searching.. and the panic on the other woman's face instantly dissolves and she calls for her, loudly at first then again, pulling her out of that river all over again like the river had just been pulled out of her.. and then the dark eyes focus and I hear her speak for the first time..

Maura.

And the woman catches her own breath and shuts her eyes and repeats the name she had called in desperation so many times but more softly, like in a prayer, as her hands move to cradle the dark head and pull her from the cold concrete into her arms for long enough to know she is alive and her heartbeat is real and the breaths against her neck are not her own breaths any more but belong to her, then she lowers her down and rolls her onto her side, easing the water out of her lungs and holding her head gently in her hands.

And on her side now Jane is facing me, and I can hear the footsteps coming from behind and the rattle of a gurney and I know she is going to be okay.. And she opens her eyes and I know she is looking at me and I see a faint smile on those lips, that were only a few seconds ago so blue and without life. I blink away the memory and smile back and nod at her because I am thankful and I understand.

Then she looks up at the woman holding her so tenderly and smiles and she's telling her not to cry, but her shoulders are shaking and even with her back to me I can hear the sobs and she's telling her how stupid she is and did she have any idea what she was doing...how close she came to losing her and did she understand what that would have meant.. But her voice isn't angry it's desperate and frightened and relieved all at once and then there is a pale hand on her cheek and she leans into it, and I watch as she reaches up with her own hand and covers the other and turns her head to kiss it softly, and her eyes are closed but her lips are trembling and I can see the tears still sliding down her face.

I feel a blanket being pulled around me and two pairs of boots appear in my peripheral vision. She knows they are there too because she lets go of Jane's hand and tells her she's going to be okay then she looks up to them and explains what has happened, all of the detail they need to know and then more. And the gurney slides past and they lower it down and this time the hands are helping, not pulling her body onto the narrow trolley, and they wrap her in a blanket like mine and warm hands are rubbing Jane's arms through the material and fussing over the corners to make sure no more cold can get in... and she's matter-of-factly explaining she didn't through all that agony just to have her best friend die of hypothermia..

And the dark eyes slip closed behind a smile and they wheel the gurney towards where the ambulance is waiting and I watch the woman's shoulders slowly fall and a hand rise to her temple and I know what she is trying to do - and she turns to me and the eyes are not anger and accusation but sorrow and sympathy and she approaches me slowly and I know, when she puts her hand on my shoulder that she is thinking the same thing as me.

She squeezes my shoulder and makes room for the paramedics to return to me - but I know where she's going and it's where she will stay, and while I answer the list of questions and submit to the preliminary tests I can't help watching them in the light spilling out from the back of the ambulance... How she tilts her head and hesitantly touches the side of the gurney, and then that hand reaches out from under the blanket the same way it reached for mine on the ledge and she takes it without hesitation and I wonder if maybe Jane's pulling her off a ledge too.

And I close my eyes and allow the pain and loss to finally envelop me, because she still has her and I don't...

But at least now I can live.


	2. The Ward

A/N: thank you so much to those who reviewed and followed The Ledge. This is for you :) regardless of whether I am total crap or am just a bit worse than average, I love writing and have realised after this much time how much I Have missed it - the idea of creating a multi chapter story based on the observations of others was purely out of your interest and my challenge, so thank you.

Tx

...

Observations: The Ward

You see a lot of things on the emergency ward.

Some call it the ward of hope, others the ward of tears. The wonders - and sadly limits - of modern medicine dictate which side of the fence it falls on for the people who enter. One thing is for sure - the ward doesn't discriminate. All manner of people come and go through those heavy double doors. There are people I have seen who I will never see again, and there are those who I see almost every other night... Who find solace in too much alcohol, too many drugs, or the back of an ambulance in the care of anyone who will give them the time of day.

And there are those whose occupation bring them here more often than they should. Which is why I am tending to one Detective Jane Rizzoli, who I know well. Definitely better than she knows me. In fairness, there wouldn't be a trauma nurse or surgeon who didn't know the Detective. Hero of Boston - shot herself through the stomach to kill the man holding the entire Boston Police Department hostage.

But I know her from earlier than that.

I remember the woman I was assigned to, at the tail end of a double shift I had been asked to work due to to load on the department on a Wednesday night. I had been tired, short with everyone and certainly less than impressed with those who were treating the ward like their own personal hotel room... I had approached her bed with all the bluster and impatience and irritation that had tagged along with the loss of my night off. And then I had seen her.

I will never forget that look.

We had been trained on the roles, purposes and likely injuries of the Boston Emergency Services - of which the police was one. It was our unspoken commitment to care for each other, no matter what. Though we crossed boundaries of profession, our goal was the same. But nothing had prepared me for what I saw in her eyes... Total and utter defeat. And that, perhaps, is what I remembered about Detective Jane Rizzoli, before I remembered the injuries, the delicate care they required, the physical therapy - after all, hands were something a Detective couldn't do without.

They were something Jane Rizzoli certainly couldn't do without.

I had seen Jane Rizzoli no less than four times since that first night. Each time the look in her eyes was the same. I had tried, and failed, to gain access to her hands beyond the absolutely clinical requirement. They had become the things she had tried to protect - or hide - I never really understood which it was. She gained no comfort in the same action that so many others did. I couldn't take her hand. It was out of bounds, and all of the nursing staff knew it.

But then there was the doctor.

As nurses, we don't like being told how to do our jobs, but we appreciate the people who know how to do theirs. And Dr Maura Isles is one of those. And she talks to me now, as I adjust the oxygen and carefully administer the right amount of pain medication to dull the ache in Detective Rizzoli's cracked ribs, about her concerns for the next 12 hours - dry drowning - we have seen it here so many times. In those cases, it is due to people either drinking too much and falling off their transportation or people making a terrible, tragic choice. Rarely do I save a bed for those who step in to try and stop it.

But that, as I have learned, is Jane Rizzoli's MO, isn't it?

From what I understand, Dr Isles was the one who pulled her out of the river, who administered the CPR for more than 10 minutes that only slightly fractured one rib - another testament to her skills. I have seen people attempt CPR for 2 minutes and crack 4 ribs. Not that it matters of course, in the end it saves the life, but Dr Isles had once again proven her expertise over the human body.

And from what I can see, a little more than that.

She's next to her of course, holding her hand in the same protective way that loved ones do, that I see all the time. The difference is in Detective Rizzoli. I have never seen her hold another person's hand. I have seen flinching, pulling away certainly. But never another person able to touch those hands. Or the scars that lie across them.

But she can.

I ask her my questions, take her major vitals, adjust her oxygen and double check the mask over her mouth, and I wonder whether or not a part of her remembers me as well as I remember her. Until I notice her eyes for the first time. Not defeated. Not even close. These eyes are resolute.. Strong, and fixed on Dr Isles.

And I realise it doesn't matter. It is not the same woman.

I can't help the smile that reaches my lips as I turn away. My rotation is over. I will be there tomorrow.

* * *

><p>There is a flurry of activity as I arrive for my shift. She had had trouble breathing during the night. She had panicked, ripped out her IV and as a result, we had all panicked. Nobody wants to lose a patient, especially someone from the police department. Especially, as it turned out, Jane Rizzoli. Because Dr Maura Isles was still there, still awake, and lucid and more than capable of directing us all although she refrained from doing so. But her eyes were clear. We needed to get it right.<p>

I would like to think she smiled at me because it was me, not because I was just another nurse on the emergency ward. But I will never know. I check the IV, note it is firmly in place and review the oxygen vitals from the night before, and the morning. She looks at me, because Dr Isles is sleeping beside her, her head on the side of the bed, cushioned on a hand, her other across the dark-haired woman's stomach. Without a word I reach for the pillow that had been discarded from the hospital chair Dr Isles was sitting on, and place it closer to her head. Close enough to Jane's hand to take control of it, if she wanted to.

Behind the mask, she smiles. And her eyes aren't defeat - they are strength and determination and acceptance and love. Unconsciously, I look down at Dr Isles and then back to her, and she nods once in answer.

So 24 hours later I find myself saying to Jane, with a cracked rib and dubious breathing but in the capable hands of her insistent Dr Isles, hat I look forward to never seeing her again. The smile that spreads across her face is almost as bright as the one currently on Dr Isles'...

And only slightly less than mine as I turn away from Rizzoli's hands being held in hers, and return to the ward for the rest of my day.


	3. The Robber

A/N: Thank you to everyone coming along on this merry slightly-left-of-centre journey with me :) it's fun, and intriguing. And to jjmlucky13 - I hear ya, and I have plans :)

Tx

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><p>Observations 3: The Robber<p>

I don't mind admitting, I almost asked the woman out. Hell, there wouldn't be a man here who wouldn't have at least thought about it. Occasionally they tried, always they failed. A long long line consisting of the sleazy, the over-confident, God even the _under_-confident would shuffle past, try their luck only to join the ranks of the great rejected.

It's no surprise, that woman has _class_. Everyone noticed when she first came in, with that Jane Rizzoli. Now _Rizzoli_ is someone who fits in at the dirty Robber. But Dr Isles, she stood out in her dress and heels and perfect hair and everyone, and I mean _everyone_ noticed. That night alone I fielded questions from half the local flies - who was she, where did she come from, was she new in town - and I'm pretty sure I already knew she was the chief medical examiner and she'd been working with the BPD for months, but it was the first time she'd ventured anywhere near here.

I think Rizzoli had dragged her. I'll have to thank her for that one day.

I mean seriously, she walks in and this place goes from beer, batter and burgers to Cabernet, capers and some weird-ass kale thing everyone insists on putting in their salad.

...and even I'm wondering what "Dirty Robber" would sound like in French

Now don't get me wrong, she's not snobby. You'd be forgiven for thinking it and I did wonder on that first night, but she's not. At first she was just, a bit reserved maybe. Maybe she felt a bit too capers and kale for the burgers and beer. But she started to come along every Friday with Rizzoli and the BPD posse and over the years i'd say she has become... more comfortable - maybe, like, more at ease with herself and the boys... And definitely Jane. And yes even me - she laughs and jokes with me and every so often makes suggestions for the wine list... Which is sort of my fault, I did make one change for her once, the first time we talked. Well.. Argued.. for half an hour about red wine options and I caved. And that smile and those eyes, god almighty they look right into you, you know? That was when I almost asked her out. Almost.

But I didn't because I knew what the answer would be. instead I just got the darned wine, and up to now, I've sold every bottle bar one to her. Nobody else drinks it - nobody else knows what the hell it is - but I don't have the guts to tell her, so the truth is I keep it on the menu and just buy a couple of bottles a week from the local shop just to have it on hand for _her_.

So she'd normally be drinking the wine tonight, but Rizzoli has asked for a favour, and it is standing in a box in my bar fridge next to the Bud. Damn fancy if you ask me.

It's the four of them - Korsak, the two Rizzolis and Dr Isles, and they're celebrating Jane being back at work after some new dumb-ass stunt that nearly got her killed.. Word on the street is that Dr. Isles saved her life, and I threatened the word with a punch to the jaw when he made some dirty comment about her giving Jane CPR. Because that sort of thing isn't class. And Dr Isles is. And screw it - Jane may be one of the boys but she risks her life every day for this city and she deserves better too. So I threatened his face then I told him he wasn't welcome until he could act less like an ape. Never liked that Crowe guy.

I'm polishing the glasses when she looks up at me and nods - I guess that is my cue. I wink at her, reach for the box and fumble it open. I'm not used to bottles like this in boxes. This one I can't even pronounce, something like a Billiecart and a Salmon.

And I have no doubt it goes nicely in a French restaurant with capers and kale.

I know how to pop a cork and I make sure it is loud - and suddenly I am _the_ man and the darned centre of attention with my fancy French champagne in an average pub in the middle of Boston. And even I have my secrets - Rizzoli doesn't know but I found some old flutes from the guy who owned the place before me and they are as fancy as the champagne. Royal something glassware. I don't care, it's royal and has the insignia on it which means Dr Isles will notice. And I only have four.

So to make it special I straighten my collar, throw a white hand towel over my arm as that's the closest thing I have to a cloth napkin like the posh waiters in the French restaurants have, place the empty flutes on my tray and walk towards them with the bottle, as confidently posh as I can manage. I feel like I am betraying every publican bone in my body and yet it is so worth it when I see the look on her face, and those eyes - again - She looks at the bottle and then at Jane and back at the bottle again, that darned Rizzoli is beaming like the cat who got the cream.

"Your champagne, mademoiselles and sirs.."

Ok, so I've been practicing this one for 24 hours since Jane asked the favour and I am sure I got it wrong because of the way Dr Isles laughs, but doesn't correct me and I swear somehow that is important. Korsak and Frank are obviously in on the secret - they are not surprised but probably really curious to try this stuff. So I pour it and leave the glasses and the bottle with them and throw one last glance at Dr Isles, who looks at me like I'm the best waiter she's ever seen and in that moment I seriously contemplate asking her out again... But later...

Maybe it's my French.

As I leave the table I hear "this is for you.." But miss the rest of it because there are other people with far more average taste leaning on my bar needing their beer and burgers. So I'm busy with them, but I keep an eye on that table and watch the two men navigating their champagne and Jane enjoying hers. And Dr Isles, she is beaming.

I was doing _Jane_ a favour by doing this?

I'm caught up in the dinner rush and the next time I look at the table, it's just the two of them, like on that first night when I had to hold the whole of Boston back from Dr Isles.

And so sue me that I can't help staring at the two of them, Jane has something in her hand and is holding it out, Dr Isles has a hand to her face and has gone a shade of red that would make a tomato blush - and those eyes, man they are so wide as she stares at that thing. The 'oh my god, Jane' is obvious even from here. As obvious as how much she clearly loves it, I've been married - I've navigated the rocky waters of the woman really liking something versus when they're just trying to make you feel better but you know you've messed it up.

No messing it up this time. Clearly. She's on a winner.

Damn Rizzoli, you have style.

She's saying something important because I can see the way Dr Isles attempts to balance her attention between Jane, the item in her hand, and the red tinge to her face. Then suddenly Jane leans across the table and... kisses the corner of Dr Isles mouth... And doesn't move away straight away, and Dr Isles closes her eyes and her her hand drops down to the table, where Rizzoli's hand is resting...

And I'm still staring, because, well.. Come _on_! Give a guy a break.

I finally know why that endless list of suitors, including me, will only ever be that - endless, and always disappointed.

That Rizzoli woman has ruined it for all of us.


	4. The Lab

**Author's Note: **Yes, I have taken total liberties with this character, because I think there is so much more than what we see on the show. But for those of you who dislike or disagree, I understand but please know I did it with love because I absolutely *adore* them.

Thank you as always for following

Tx

Observations 4: The Lab

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><p>I don't mind saying, I am a lean, mean analysing <em>machine<em>.

I make analysis look _good._ Cool, hip, with a hint of swag. With one hand I can take your measley excuse for a hypothesis and turn it on its head as quickly as you can say 'mass spectrometer', and with the other I can give you the salvation of a ballistics match.

Oh yes, I _am_ the container filled with explosive or incendiary material, designed to explode on impact or when detonated by a timing, proximity, or remote-control device._…_

The. Bomb.

Obviously I would never share this information out loud… Because actually _saying_ that would be arrogant, or self-assured, or presumptuous, or rude. Take Dr Isles, for example, who despite being brilliant, extremely worldly, and an exceptional Medical Examiner, is none of those aforementioned things. She has class, and tact, and a modicum of humility.

And then.. there is Detective Rizzoli. Who is all of those aforementioned things, all of the time.

Who I know, is on her way right now.

You know, at one stage I initiated a study on the temperature of the room when Jane Rizzoli walked into it. After all, everyone always says that the air cools a few degrees whenever she is nearby (the addendum that that is they also say a few _other_ things, particularly in reference to Jane's incessant need to make everybody around her feel inadequate).

Of course I felt the hypothesis warranted testing. I set up a digital thermometer under my clipboard when she walked in to observe one of Dr Isles' autopsies, but the interference from the conducting nature of the metal made getting any reasonable data impossible.

Oh,_ and_ I was discovered. Before I could re-test the theory with a newly acquired plastic clipboard Dr Isles noticed the thermometer, and I had to fabricate a scenario where I wasn't feeling well and was monitoring my own temperature. She of course then forced me to take the rest of the day off and one of my colleagues got to analyse the composition of that drowning victim's last meal… Which naturally, led to the arrest.

You know what that is?

Newton's Third Law. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction

It is scientist's Karma.

I can hear her coming of course. Detective Rizzoli is one of only a few women at the Boston Police Department, but even so she has a particular _stride_ about her that always signals her arrival… one that I originally learned to identify, for the most part, so I wouldn't have to be present for it.

And even though I distinctly heard the conversation where Dr Isles said she would call if she found anything, I have found that impatience and the Detective are well-acquainted and visiting in the middle of an otherwise peaceful analysis seems to be her forte. Particularly when Dr Isles is working. So, thermometer essentially confiscated, my curiosity and analytical skills venture elsewhere.

We've been working on this data for several hours now, Dr Isles is always extremely thorough, which I appreciate, but I have observed, of late, that there seems to be an added – emotional response – when it involves Detective Rizzoli's cases.

Clue 2.

And it's true, this was supposed to be the answer – the final link in the evidentiary chain that would allow the detectives to close in on a suspect they had otherwise only been able to circle. It was supposed to spell the end of the case. Unfortunately, science has other ideas. Science, in all her definitive, causal glory, has been a downright _bitch_.

I can't help wondering if Science has taken some lessons from Detective Rizzoli.

Dr Isles is looking intently at the results I have shown her, pinching the bridge of her nose in a sign of… I would hypothesise disappointment and frustration. She sighs, just in time for a distinctly familiar Detective-shaped shadow to appear in the door, push it open with far more force than is reasonably necessary of course, and sweep inside.

"Come on Doctor, give me the good news!" She claps her hands together, walks up to us, purses her lips and rests her hands on her hips. I watch her eyes dart between Dr Isles, the lab data, and me, then back to Dr Isles again. She crosses her arms over her chest and frowns. "That doesn't look like good news."

Dr Isles shakes her head, and her shoulders rise in a sign of tension. "There's just not enough evidence to support any connection, Jane..."

The detective lets out a growl of frustration, and this, _this _point is where grown men and women run… Where the reality of saying _no _clashes with the desire to remain acquainted with ones limbs... or at least to be left standing with a shred of self respect. The Darwinian theory of evolution? He should have just declared 'Don't. Poke. The Bear.'

And suddenly she is looking at me, and I take a small step back, behind Dr. Isles. I tell myself she is my superior, far better-equipped to deal with Rizzoli-ism, plus she is closest to the scalpels…

The Detective frowns at me, if I didn't know better, in confusion, then turns back to Dr Isles. My eyes can't help but flick to the scalpels.

Then, to my surprise she places a hand on Dr Isles' arm and thanks her for trying. She _thanks_ her. And she looks at me too, with the same emotion.

Inconveniently this behaviour clashes with my original hypothesis. And I wonder for a moment if after my earlier insult, maybe Science is now coming to her defence.

Rizzoli asks Dr Isles to let her know if she finds anything. She looks at me and nods as if she is actually _accepting_ we haven't been any help. I can't help feeling my eyes widen as I observe… 'The bear', Jane Rizzoli, around Dr Isles is more like a tame Doberman. Protective, yes, but not aggressive. Not intrusive. Not presumptuous, or arrogant, or rude. Not a bitch, at all.

Seriously?

As if antimatter is no longer a _thing._

I note how Dr Isles takes a single breath out of time with the rest – a respirational anomaly that seems to occur around the same time as the Detective came into contact with her arm. My eyes now narrow with interest, like they do when I'm close to uncovering something… very evidentiary.

Clue 3.

"My place?" Detective Rizzoli throws over her shoulder as she walks towards the exit.

"Of course-" Dr Isles replies, and now her body language has my full attention I can see a relaxed dip in her shoulders. "6:30?"

"You betcha."

"Chinese?"

"Hmm…" Near the door, Rizzoli spins lightly on the ball of one booted foot, arms swinging away from her body, the other coming to rest confidently behind it. Yet again, I can't hide my surprise, that was almost… graceful. Her eyes glint, and courtesy of her left zygomaticus she throws Dr Isles a lop-sided smile. "Mexican."

Dr Isles tilts her head to the side. The side-long glance a person gives when they intend to imply a level of cunning. "Margaritas?"

Clue 4.

My eyes dart quickly to my second subject.

"Ohhh _Maura Isles_…" I note her voice has dropped to a lower register, and pay particular attention to she the way she draws out Dr Isles' first name, narrows her eyes in a gesture inferring collusion, then smiles, very widely. "_Now_ you're talking."

There would be many who might hypothesise a complete facial fracture if Detective Rizzoli ever smiled like that. But not Dr Isles, because I have observed a distinct increase in blood flow around the capillaries of her neck and cheek.

Clue 5.

The Detective straightens, and their mutual role play dissolves with a short laugh. "See you later." She says, casually. "Later, Senior Criminalist Chang!" She shouts from down the hall.

And Detective Rizzoli is gone from the room, except she isn't. There is DNA, there is inquisition... There is intent.

And _I _have an evidentiary link.

Dr Isles stops a moment, and turns, regarding me carefully.

Lean, mean, analysing machine. _Oh Susie, you have outdone yourself _

"I believe there is a plethora of evidence to support _that _connection, Dr Isles." I say with a smirk.

And she looks at me, a bit lost at first but finally her pupils dilate and dart to the side, her mouth twitches in an obvious outward display of veiled discomfort. I shrug, pull my clipboard to my chest and turn to leave, I don't know what on earth she has to be uncomfortable about… but my smirk grows into a smile.


End file.
